The Road Taken, page 28
“Elsie, why are you talking about this?”
“I don’t know,” Elsie said quickly. Her voice was strained. “Have you seen any good movies lately?”
She’s dying, Rose thought. She herself knew very little about medicine, and cancer was a secret, the word no one dared to say, but she was an intelligent woman and she could see that Elsie was not only unwell but afraid. “Elsie,” Rose said, “you can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me what the doctor said. I care about you. I want to help.”
Elsie gave a little smile. “Help? I have a little lung problem. I will probably outlive everyone, including my husband’s latest girlfriend. Rose, do have another martini. I don’t like to drink alone.”
Rose let her friend pour some more into her glass, and pretended to sip. “Have you told Lionel?”
“Heavens no, he’d be too thrilled. Maybe the doctor told him. Certainly the doctor didn’t tell me. My dear doctor suggested I take a trip. Europe, he said, somewhere glamorous. I suppose that was his way of suggesting that I do all the things I’ve always wanted to do before I can’t.”
“Then it is serious? Elsie, don’t play games with me.”
“But they play them with me, don’t they? I suppose I’ll find out when the time comes. In the meantime, everyone wants me to be happy, so I’ll oblige them.”
“Oh, Elsie,” Rose said. She got up impetuously and put her arms around her old friend. Although she knew Elsie was thin, she was so unexpectedly bony to the touch that Rose was startled. Get well, she wanted to say. Get well backwards, as she had said to her childhood friend, the first Elsie, in their secret code, so long ago as she was dying of diabetes. I can’t bear to lose you too, she thought. And yet, even as she thought it, Rose knew life had brought her so many losses that she was already becoming inured to this one; even as she hugged her friend, she was beginning to say good-bye.
“I’m so frightened,” Elsie murmured. “And then, sometimes I’m not. I believe everything will be all right, that I’ll get well. And then, usually at night, I can’t sleep and I think how they know something I don’t know. . . . Or maybe they don’t know either. Whoever wrote that ignorance is bliss? You’d have to be terribly ignorant.”
Rose knew there was nothing she could do. Well, she could see her more often, try to cheer her up if that were possible. Elsie drew away from her embrace. “Do you ever wonder,” Elsie said, “what you would do if they told you it was your last night on earth? Would you have an amazing meal, make love, call everyone and tell them what you think of them? Or would you just sit in your house, curl up in a miserable little ball of fear, and tremble? I don’t know what I would do, and so I vacillate. Right now I’m curled up in that little ball.”
“Make Lionel take you to Europe,” Rose said. “He will. Have a good time. And then if what you’re afraid of never happens, having had a wonderful time will be the best revenge of all.”
“You agree with my doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I will,” Elsie said.
When Rose walked the few yards home night was moving in, the long, lingering, pale end of a summer day. There were so many secrets, she thought, behind the facades of each of these houses. So many betrayals, so many wasted lives. Compromises and regrets. She felt very sad. She and Elsie Wilder had known each other for almost thirty-five years, and yet, in a way, they were like trains rushing by on parallel tracks. She suddenly missed Joan so much she almost doubled over with the pain of it.
But no matter how upset she was, whenever she opened her front door she felt flooded with safety. My home. Sometimes, Rose thought, if I don’t look too hard I can pretend nothing has changed. She went into the living room.
And there, sitting in a chair, her newly short blond hair gleaming in the last gold rays of the setting sun, was Joan.
“Hi, Mom,” Joan said.
Rose almost sobbed for joy. “Joan!”
“I thought I’d come back,” Joan said. “Is that okay?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
When the family noticed how reluctant Joan was to talk about her time in California, they did not persist. Although she seemed more womanly somehow, a little more filled out, she also appeared damaged. They all assumed that her voluntary exile had been as difficult for her as it had been for them, if not more so. Joan seemed to be a convalescent, soaking in the nourishing atmosphere of home. But after she had been there two days she started looking for a job.
This time she wanted to work in publishing, even though that was the glamour career that every girl who was a college graduate coveted and very few attained. But she was also more practical than she had been before she left; she took a crash course in typing and shorthand at Katherine Gibbs, she told the employment agency about her (partly fictitious, but how would anyone know that?) expertise in running a bookstore, and before long she was working as a secretary to an editor at the large commercial publishing firm Webster and Dally and bringing home manuscripts every night to read.
Joan had not yet seen Peggy face-to-face, although Rose had told Peggy she was back. The two had not even spoken. Rose knew they were both afraid, and she waited for the right moment to push them, because by now she was used to waiting.
All Rose wanted was to help repair the hurt and make things the way they were so long ago. She wanted to restore the relationship between Joan and Peggy, and she wanted Joan to stay. Joan was twenty-eight, she had lived alone in another state, she was obviously used to being independent, but Rose hoped she would like being back with her family so much that she wouldn’t decide to get her own apartment as so many unmarried girls were doing lately.
Hugh had come over to see Joan as soon as he heard she was back, bringing Teddy and Blanche. Celia had come too, of course. Ben, while he was relieved to have his middle daughter back, was also wary that she might bolt again if she felt threatened. Ginger, who was impatient, had suggested calling Peggy the very first night, but Joan had put her hand firmly on the phone and fixed her with such a dark look that Ginger had giggled nervously and said, “All right, all right,” and Ben had been so unsettled by this seething emotion that he had left the room.
Joan was sweet and pleasant to all of them, less moody, nicer than she had been before. But she was clearly treading through this portion of her life with extreme caution, and they were obviously meant to respect that.
What they didn’t know, of course, was that Joan was so desperate to speak to Peggy, and so afraid that Peggy would hang up on her, that she rehearsed their first conversation over and over whenever she had a chance. She wanted to be Peggy’s sister again, and even more, she wanted to see “their” child. As much as Joan knew Markie was Peggy’s and Ed’s now, she also knew Markie was hers. She would push her motherly feelings away, she would remind herself that she had never been or wanted to be parent material, she was aware that the birth mother should never know the adoptive mother, and yet she was yearning to see Markie, and each stage of Markie’s development that she missed filled her with frustration. She just wanted to look at her, that was all.
How many evenings she had been poised to dial Peggy’s number, and then had drawn back, wary. “Why don’t you call Peggy, darling?” her mother ventured, from time to time.
“Why doesn’t she call me?”
“You were this way when you were little girls,” her mother said. “If you had a fight neither of you would give in.”
“This was hardly a fight, Mom.”
“I think you should invite her to come over Sunday for dinner.”
“Me?”
“Should I?”
“She won’t come,” Joan said. “By fall Peggy has her life scheduled right through Christmas.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. Peggy is so proud of her new baby she’ll want you to meet her. May I invite Peggy and Ed? Will that be all right?”
“That’s fine,” Joan said, pretending she was not terrified.
She knew Rose called Peggy often, and every time Joan noticed that Rose was talking to Peggy she was tempted to lift the receiver and listen in. She supposed they discussed her. She wanted to know and she didn’t. When Peggy came with Markie and Joan wanted to touch or embrace the baby, would Peggy pull her away? Joan thought her fantasies were far more punishing than the eventual truth would be, and her dream was far too rewarding. Her dream was forgiveness and even thanks. And that last, she knew, she would never have.
“They’re coming Sunday,” Rose said. She was beaming and triumphant. “We’ll have dinner at two o’clock, a nice family dinner, as if it were a holiday. I’m going to bake a cake; I haven’t done that in a long time. A Martha Washington cake—you know, with the sugary marshmallow icing you girls used to love and the walnuts and cherries in the icing inside the layers. Wait till Peggy sees your new haircut, Joan, I bet she’ll want one just like it.”
I’ll take that bet, Joan thought. We never wanted the same things.
On the Sunday they were to come, Joan watched the street from her bedroom window, her heart pounding. The Glovers drove up in a car she didn’t recognize: light blue, four doors, with fins and a hard white top. This must be the new car her mother had told her about, since Peggy had started driving again. Joan watched them park and get out and go up the stairs to the house. Peter had grown a lot, he was almost gangly. Peggy was carrying Markie. Markie was wearing a round wool hat with a narrow brim, that matched her coat, but Joan could see that the baby’s white-blond hair had turned gold now, as had happened with Marianne, and herself and Peggy, when they got older. The little head bobbed up and down, and turned to look at the sights.
I can’t believe I made that baby, Joan thought, with a rush of love. I made a miracle. Peggy doesn’t know what I know. I am a good person. A noble person. All debts are over now, on both sides.
She took a deep breath, unclenched her fingers, and went slowly downstairs.
The instant that passed when they first looked at each other seemed much longer. Peggy had taken off Markie’s coat and hat, and was holding her in her arms. Ed stood behind them, in a sort of gesture of solidarity, as if he were their protector. From the background noises Joan could tell that Peter had gone to the kitchen with Ginger, to help get sodas. Rose and Ben were in the corner, in the shadows, trying not to be there, afraid to leave.
“Hi, Peggy,” Joan said.
“Hi.” There was the briefest pause. “Well, this is Marguerite,” Peggy said. “Markie to all who know and love her.”
But Marguerite to me, Joan thought, feeling stabbed. Did she mean it that way, or is it just Peggy being flip? “Well, hello,” Joan said. She advanced a few steps until they were all face-to-face. “What a beautiful baby you are,” she said. “I’m your Aunt Joan.”
Markie beamed at her. “She’s a flirt,” Ed said.
“Hi, Ed,” Joan said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You, too.”
“And you, Peggy,” Joan said. “And . . . Marguerite.”
“Markie,” Peggy said. She smiled.
Without thinking, because if she had paused to think she wouldn’t have done it, Joan, fighting back the lump in her throat, put her arms around Peggy and the baby. But Peggy did not recoil. When Joan looked at her she had tears in her eyes, too. “I missed you,” Joan said. Her voice sounded strange, strangled.
“Well, we’re here,” Peggy said. She bit her lip. There was another pause. She can’t say she missed me too, because she didn’t, Joan thought. But I wish she’d just lie and say it.
“Do you want to hold her?” Peggy asked.
“Oh, yes!” What a gesture of trust and forgiveness that was. Joan was overwhelmed. She felt again like the warmly accepted sister she had been during that brief period before everything fell apart, and she swore to herself that she would watch herself every moment to make sure she never did harm again. She held out her arms and Peggy placed Markie in them. Joan waited for the baby to stiffen and draw away, but she didn’t. Instead she peered into Joan’s eyes curiously, and Joan realized that because of the strong family resemblance this new adult seemed familiar.
This is my baby, Joan thought. How odd. I made these cells. Look how contented Peggy and Ed are. This one infant saved a whole family. I never dreamed everything would work so well. She kissed Markie’s silky cheek. Then Markie turned back to look at her mother, and strained to get away, and Joan handed her over. “She looks just like Marianne,” Joan said.
“Yes, but she looks like us, too,” Peggy said. “There’s a lot of Ed in her, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Joan said. Not Ed; Trevor, she thought. Viewed at a certain angle the baby looked so much like her father that Joan missed him again. If I had Trevor with me we’d all be couples, she thought; I’d be like the rest of the world.
“Why doesn’t everybody sit down?” Rose offered brightly. “We’re going to have dinner in an hour.”
They sat, and Ginger and Peter came in with the cans of soda and a bucket of ice, Ben opened wine. Uncle Hugh burst in with Teddy and their dog, followed by Grandma, and Ben mixed martinis. Grandma had her one whiskey sour. Peter had greeted Joan calmly, with a sweet boyish smile, as if they hadn’t been away from each other for years, and for that she was grateful too. They all made small talk, the way they used to in the old days.
This is the nature of family, Joan thought: When things go badly it’s a nightmare, and when they go well it’s nothing special. She couldn’t take her eyes off Markie, but she didn’t want to take her away or keep her. Just being accepted again, finally, made her feel exhausted. With everyone talking gaily about nothing—the nothing that was the stuff of family, without which there was a cosmic emptiness, with which there was coziness and boredom—Joan realized she would never fit in completely anywhere, but it didn’t matter. She fit in well enough.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The sixties, the decade that would overturn almost everything people believed in, that would replace complacency with chaos, came in quietly at first. There was an undeclared war in Vietnam, but many people did not even know if this faraway place was spelled as one word or two. As for the war itself, two cultures that could not, and would not, ever understand each other, were about to tear each other apart for no purpose that anyone could fathom, except for the incendiary word Communism. America had a new young president, the charismatic John F. Kennedy, the first Catholic in the White House, with a beautiful, fashionable, young wife and two adorable children, and America was besotted with Camelot. People chuckled that it was nice to know someone was having sex in the White House again.
“Ask not what your country can do for you,” this president said, “but what you can do for your country.” To the silent generation brought up under Granddaddy Eisenhower, who were now coming of age, the notion of activism, of being able to make a difference, was appealing and empowering. People joined the Peace Corps, they traveled the world.
Empowering too was the birth control pill, which in 1960 was approved by the FDA. Although there were frightening warnings attached to this new miracle—seizures, embolisms, heart attacks, and strokes, especially for smokers—the Pill was in the culture to stay.
There was also an IUD available, for women who were afraid to take the pill. This early intrauterine device, called the Grafenberg Ring, was a coiled wire ring, a kind of cross between a wedding ring and a Slinky. The history of this birth control discovery was interesting: Desert nomads would place a smooth stone in the uterus of their female camels to make sure they would not conceive on a long trip; something was in there already, fooling nature, so an egg would not fertilize. This premise led to the discovery of the IUD for people.
The babies who had been born in such large numbers after World War II were teenagers now, a generation that was becoming a power group by virtue of its size and, more importantly, its disposable income. People still married and fled to the suburbs and their dream of permanent safety, as they had in the fifties, but it would not be long before others wanted to try something new before they settled down. Reliable birth control was about to open up a whole new world. Joan, relieved to see the end of clumsy diaphragms and messy jelly, or the Pill that required remembering, got an IUD.
Joan and Ginger each moved into their own apartment. No one was surprised by Joan’s decision, since a girl her age, nearly thirty, did not live at home with her parents, and Joan had always been independent anyway. There were so many apartments available in New York that people didn’t bother to paint; they moved instead.
Joan had found a one-bedroom apartment in a new building on theupper East Side, where on nice days she could enjoy a long, healthy walk to work. She was an assistant editor already, and seemed, for the moment at least, to have found her metier. Rose thought Joan might become a career woman, although that was not what she would have fantasized for her daughter because she felt it carried too much personal unhappiness. Joan was still so attractive; she looked in a way like a pale rose, and she had one boyfriend after another, each of whom lasted several months, and none of whom became permanent.
Ginger’s defection from the family town house had caused her parents more concern than Joan’s had, although they knew she too had an understandable reason to want to go out on her own. She wanted to be like other people, even if other people had no one to take care of them. It was not as if, Rose was forced to reassure a few of her conservative friends, Ginger wanted her apartment as a place to do something rash and sexual with men. All she did was go to classes and study. Her own apartment was a gesture, a symbol, and she needed it.
Ginger was stunned by the enormity of material she would have to learn at med school. It was not possible for anyone. The medical text book was two thousand pages long, so was the surgery textbook. No one could memorize it all, or even retain large chunks for the short time until they got dizzy; yet, miraculously, many of the students passed their exams anyway. This was only the beginning. For the next two years she would be working in a hospital, learning by treating real patients, albeit in an underling way and with supervision, trying not to be too ignorant, trying not to hurt them by stupidity, by hubris, by mistakes.
